


Ghosts of the past

by Rose_SK



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Endgame Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/pseuds/Rose_SK
Summary: Jaskier remembered a time when he was but a carefree young lad running barefoot on his family’s large estate, chasing butterflies and singing at his heart’s delight in between history and algebra lessons. He remembered his mother, a soft and loving woman, tell him that good things always happen to those who wait. However, the cherished memory of her wise words left a bitter taste in Jaskier’s mouth. He had waited long enough – two decades, to be precise, and nothing good had come of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 284





	Ghosts of the past

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a dream I had and I could not NOT write this. Hope you guys like it. xxx

_Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you shovelling it?_

Geralt’s words echoed in Jaskier’s ears like a cruel mantra. He had replayed those words over and over in his mind. The memory of Geralt’s harsh tone coupled with the angry expression marring the witcher’s otherwise handsome features made Jaskier flinch every time his mind wandered back to that fateful day when Geralt had sent him on his way. Jaskier was beginning to doubt that he had ever been a worthy travel companion to Geralt, despite his many efforts to the contrary. When had the bard been anything but _caring_ to this grump of a witcher? When had Jaskier ever given Geralt any reason to resent him, what, for being too kind? Too joyful, too interested in Geralt’s stories, too _in love_ with a man who believed himself too monstrous to deserve any form of praise, attention, or love?

If Jaskier was at fault for being too good a friend, then he would gladly take the blame but that did not take away the pain he felt at Geralt’s rejection.

 _If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands_.

It simply was not fair.

Jaskier remembered a time when he was but a carefree young lad running barefoot on his family’s large estate, chasing butterflies and singing at his heart’s delight in between history and algebra lessons. He remembered his mother, a soft and loving woman, tell him that good things always happen to those who wait. However, the cherished memory of her wise words left a bitter taste in Jaskier’s mouth. He had waited long enough – two decades, to be precise, and nothing _good_ had come of it. Geralt was still as clueless as the first day they met, clueless that Jaskier had fallen head over heels in love with the witcher at first sight. Granted it did not take much for the bard to fall in love – he was, after all, a lover of humanity. He gave his heart away too freely, and got it handed back to him trampled and broken most of the time. Jaskier had learned to move on quickly from his flames, but with Geralt he had always found himself unable to forget the witcher. Even when Geralt would disappear for months on end resulting in Jaskier distracting himself by inviting perfect strangers to his bed. Once, Jaskier managed to seduce a knight to share his bed for the night and imagined that it was Geralt’s rough, calloused hands gripping his hips as he pounded Jaskier mercilessly (and somewhat sloppily). The next day, when the bard convinced a pretty maid to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, he had positioned her with her rear facing him as he gently made love to her from behind and pictured Geralt in her stead. The witcher was always on Jaskier’s mind, even when the bard knew full well that he was competing for Geralt’s attention with Yennefer of Vengerberg. The competition was unfair, granted. Her dark curls framing her pale face, and those fascinating irises the colour of amethyst would bewitch any man, even witchers.

Damn her! Damn the djinn for linking Geralt’s and Yennefer’s destinies. Damn Jaskier for clinging onto the belief that if he waited long enough, he would be able to wear the witcher down. Damn the world.

But most importantly, damn Geralt of Rivia for triggering all kinds of feelings in Jaskier.

Jaskier tripped over the protruding roots of a pine tree and his body hit the muddy ground heavily. He cursed under his breath as he felt a sharp shooting pain in his foot. Trust him to twist his ankle in the middle of the forest, probably miles away from any kind of healer. He would now have to hobble his way through this treacherous thicket of trees, hoping he would reach civilisation before nightfall, or he would make a great snack for the wolves and other creatures looming in the darkness.

Jaskier could almost hear Geralt chastising him for his clumsiness, but no matter how irritated the witcher would have been, Jaskier knew Geralt would have helped him onto Roach and ridden to the next village demanding the help of a healer. He had done so before when Jaskier nearly choked to death on a tumour in his throat occasioned by a trickster djinn. Jaskier had never seen Geralt so worried, and it had filled his heart with hope that the witcher actually cared about him more than he cared to show.

 _I said some things to him. I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers_.

Geralt was convinced that Jaskier had been fast asleep at that point, but Jaskier had heard every word. Geralt regretted his words, which implied that unlike what he claimed witchers _did_ have feelings. Some feelings might have been repressed more than others because of the various mutations, but they were _there_ and that deduction had filled Jaskier with _hope_. A hope that was quickly taken away when the bard had seen Geralt and Yennefer having sex amidst the rubble. Damn Geralt of Rivia for breaking Jaskier’s heart, over and over again, and damn Jaskier for always running back to him like a lost puppy. Well not _this_ time, Jaskier vowed to himself although he knew that if he ever saw Geralt again he would probably follow his heart rather than his head… again. He was a poet, after all. Poets did not think or speak with their minds, but with their hearts.

The setting sun cast a dark shadow over the forest and Jaskier felt anxiety take a hold of him. The sound of howling wolves in the distance sent his heart racing in his chest and sweat to trickle down his neck. Jaskier had to get a move on, and fast if he hoped to get out of this forest alive. He hobbled faster than before, ignoring the pain in his ankle. He stepped on dead leaves, fallen branches and brittle twigs on his way and probably caused quite a commotion in his wake, but the wolves would cover more ground than him in considerably less time. It was a race against time and Jaskier had no other choice but to win. His doublet got caught on the rough bark of a tree and tore at the sleeve. Jaskier’s panicked breaths echoed in the vastness of the forest. The world around him darkened considerably as the sun set further below the horizon. Jaskier noticed with dismay that he could not see the sky above his head because of the thick foliage of the trees. An owl hooted close to him, making the bard jump and let out a terrified squeal. He could hear the howling again, but this time closer. The wolves were on his trail.

Then, in the near distance, a flicker of light caught Jaskier’s eye. The tiny yellowish dot contrasted against the dark surroundings. Light! Where there was light, there were often people. Knowing this was his only hope, Jaskier hobbled faster than ever in the direction of the dot, noticing how it was growing larger and larger. Soon, other yellowish dots joined the first one and Jaskier deduced that he was getting closer to an abode, perhaps even a whole village. With some luck, Jaskier would find friendly people there who would put him up for the night. A small, cosy-looking wooden hut finally came into view and the bard felt relief wash over him. At this point, Jaskier was dragging his injured foot behind him as he emerged from the forest and rushed to the door, crushing some flowers and other plants on the way. He hoped his host would not be too upset about the destroyed flora. Jaskier urgently knocked on the door, feeling the whole structure rattle at his panicked actions. The bard heard movement behind the door, hesitant and slow, and it took everything Jaskier had in him not to shout at whoever housed there to hurry up lest they wanted wolves at their doorstep. Finally, the door opened several inches and revealed half a face of a woman with bright green eyes and fiery red hair.

“Can I help you?” her soft, melodic voice inquired when she saw Jaskier.

“Awfully sorry to bother you so late my good woman, but I am injured and need shelter for the night. If you would be so kind to let me in. I promise I mean you no harm. I am an unarmed bard travelling to… somewhere. See,” Jaskier shifted so that the woman could see the lute strapped on his back, “just my instrument, no sword, crossbow or quiver. Please good lady, would you allow a traveller to seek shelter in your home?”

The red-headed woman eyed Jaskier suspiciously, clearly pondering whether letting him in was a wise idea. Jaskier kept looking over his shoulder at the darkness of the woods, expecting wolves to jump out at him any time now. When the howling was heard again, painfully close this time, the woman opened the door wider and let Jaskier in. The bard let out a breath he did not know he was holding once the door shut behind him. He peeked out of the window to check whether the beasts had invaded his host’s garden, but he could not see a thing beyond the dark forest.

“Do not worry, they won’t come any closer than the forest,” the woman reassured him as if reading his thoughts. For some reason, Jaskier believed her and tore himself away from the window. He took in his surroundings for the first time since his arrival and noticed a variety of jars containing herbs, different coloured liquids and some even dead insects stacked on shelves amongst appliances usually used in alchemy.

“Your foot is injured” the woman stated, her tone cold and pragmatic but not unkind.

“How did you know?” Jaskier asked in surprise. The woman motioned for him to sit on a wooden seat close to her.

“You’re not leaning on it, which makes me think you’re in pain. Besides, identifying injuries is my job,” she added with a small secretive smile. Jaskier relaxed and went to take a seat next to the healer. He unclasped his lute from his back and placed it on the table to relieve his back from its weight. The woman knelt before him and took of Jaskier’s boot and socks to examine his ankle closely.

“Nice woodwork on your instrument,” the healer remarked without taking her eyes off his injured ankle, “Ebony?”

“It is indeed,” Jaskier confirmed, letting his fingers brush almost reverently over his instrument as a proud smile graced his lips, “bought it in Novigrad several months ago. Thank you for taking me in.”

“Don’t mention it. You do not strike me as particularly dangerous,” the healer prodded Jaskier’s ankle and triggered a pained hiss when she pressed on a particularly sensitive spot. She did not apologise for the discomfort she had caused.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, but people call me Jaskier,” he introduced himself.

“Which is it,” the woman asked as she rose and went to retrieve a jar filled with a white paste, “Julian or Jaskier?”

“Oh, I… I suppose whichever you prefer,” Jaskier told the woman, who was now rubbing the white paste on his swollen ankle.

“I assume that you were given the name Julian at birth, but since your name was not memorable enough for someone in your line of work, you went with the more snappy Jaskier,” the woman guessed correctly, “Dandelion… a name befitting of a poet. Would you recite some of your poetry to me, Dandelion?”

Jaskier was not too sure how to react, but the way the woman’s green irises stared at him expectantly compelled him to grab his lute and pluck at the strings absent-mindedly as he contemplated which song to perform.

_The fairer sex they often call it,_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook_

_It steals all my reason_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

Jaskier felt bile rise in his throat as he sung the ballad no one had got to hear him perform yet. Inspiration for him had come to him after Geralt’s painful rejection. A song about Yennefer manipulative hold on _his_ witcher. A song about Geralt being too blind to notice the spell he was under. A song of _longing, and heartache and lust_. Jaskier always coming last whenever Yennefer was involved. It was almost as if Geralt lost all sense of logic when Yennefer was around. He would walk through fire for her, just like Jaskier would walk through fire for Geralt. Despite that, she had broken his heart and left him alone on that mountain, angry and lost. And yet when Jaskier had tried to pick up the pieces, Geralt had pushed him away. _How is that just_?

 _I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting_.

Jaskier knew he would never see Geralt again. All because of Yennefer.

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss._

Jaskier blinked the tears away that threatened to spill as he ended the song. He did not need the healer to see him so weak. The room was filled with total silence. The healer was busy cleaning utensils with hot water. She seemed unaffected by Jaskier’s song, which reminded him of Geralt’s lack of emotional responses whenever the bard performed a new song for him.

“You are a sorceress,” Jaskier deducted.

“What gave it away?” she asked but did not seem alarmed or surprised.

“I knew someone, doesn’t matter who. The changes that sorceresses and mages undergo change them in many ways. They learn not to let their feelings get in the way of their magic. Not to blow my own trumpet, but my songs often trigger vivid reactions. I sometimes envy you, you know.” Jaskier did not look at the sorceress, too scared he would see a mocking glint in her eyes. She will never understand his pain.

“I have heard about you, Dandelion. Your reputation precedes you. I know you have happy ballads, too. Sing me the song about the witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” the sorceress demanded, still not looking up from her chore. Jaskier hesitated, wondering why he should entertain her when she was not showing no compassion for his state of mind. Then again, she had tended to his wound.

“Would you at least tell me your name?” Jaskier asked, believing he was at least entitled to that if he was to spend some days with the sorceress until he recovered.

“Visenna. Now play.”

And so, Jaskier played.

888

“You seem to know the witcher Geralt really well,” Visenna commented on the second day, distracting Jaskier as he tried to write a new ballad. It was difficult enough to compose when his heart felt so heavy with sorrow that all his verses came out depressing and pessimistic without having to entertain a sorceress who seemed far too invested in Geralt for it to be a casual interest.

“I just have an active imagination. I can embellish any story. Give me a grain of salt, and I shall deliver a pearl. After all, it’s my job.”

Visenna stared at Jaskier intently, and the bard wondered if she could tell he was lying. Even if he hated Geralt for the cruel words he had directed at him, Jaskier was ever the loyal companion and would not deliberately compromise Geralt’s safety. He reserved that kind of pettiness for his enemies. At the minute, he was not sure whether Visenna was a friend or a fiend, so he reserved judgement until he knew more.

“I think you’re not being entirely truthful with me,” Visenna said as if reading right through Jaskier. Perhaps she was, come to think of it.

“We barely know each other. Even though I am eternally grateful for your help in patching me up, I cannot risk the safety of friends.”

“Geralt is a friend, then. I admire your loyalty, bard.” Visenna stepped closer to where Jaskier was seated. A sad expression took over her beautiful features, along with something else the bard could not quite read. Hope, perhaps? Jaskier was not used to sorceresses showing their emotions so plainly. After all, the only feeling the last sorceress he had encountered could muster was cruelty.

“I do not mean your friend any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact. Geralt and I know each other.”

“You do?” Jaskier questioned in a suspicious tone.

“We share the most primitive bond there is. That between a mother and her child.”

Jaskier could not believe what he was hearing. He thought that perhaps he was dreaming, but he quickly discarded that thought when a sudden jerk of his foot reminded him of his injury. Visenna watched Jaskier battle with his conflicting thoughts patiently. He had no idea where to take the conversation now that it was revealed that Visenna was in fact Geralt’s mother. Jaskier had so many questions, which brought up a range of conflicting feelings. The bard finally settled on confusion.

“You… but you’re a… I don’t understand… I thought…”

“That sorceresses couldn’t conceive? You thought right. And I thought the same as you when I met Geralt’s father. Yet, here we are.”

“Geralt’s father? Of course, that makes sense, you need a father and a mother to make children, it’s just… until this point I just thought that Geralt was…”

“An orphan?” Visenna supplied, “he isn’t. He never was. I took care of him for the first six years of his life.”

“You say this like he should thank you for that. You’re his mother. It was your job to protect him. Instead, you let the witchers of Kaer Morhen kidnap him and turn him into a trained killer.”

Jaskier’s confusion was slowly replaced by anger the more Visenna revealed about herself. The sorceress remained unfazed as she stared at Jaskier condescendingly. 

“Vesemir did not kidnap my son. To tell you the truth, I sent Geralt away to be trained at Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier felt his anger flow hotly through his veins. He could not believe a mother would willingly send her child away to a place where they put young boys through a terrible ordeal, which only a handful of them survived.

“You _willingly_ sent your son away?”

“Bard, when young girls are suspected to show signs of magic, they are sent to Aretuza to train. I merely wanted my son to receive the best education, to unfold his potential. A boy born from a sorceress was bound to be destined for great things. I could not have taught him as well as I would have liked to.”

Jaskier wanted to argue with that logic, but he could not. He did not know much about Kaer Morhen – and Geralt had never been willing to provide any information on what it was like growing up in the witchers’ keep. Jaskier had nothing to go on.

“Well if you were expecting to be reunited with your son, I am afraid to say that he and I have parted ways for good. He wished for me to be taken off his hands, and so I left. I do wish you the best of luck finding him. He is famous across the Continent, someone is bound to have seen him.”

Visenna raised an eyebrow at Jaskier’s words, but she did not press him for a story. Instead, she grabbed her coat and went outside to tend to her herb garden leaving behind a beyond confused Jaskier.

888

On the sixth day, Jaskier was getting ready to leave. The sorceress’ ointment had done wonders and he was able to walk on his foot without feeling any pain apart from a slight discomfort in his joints from not putting any pressure on his ankle for nearly a week. Visenna had packed some supplies for him and had insisted he stayed for breakfast before taking off. She had not mentioned Geralt again but had asked Jaskier to play many ballads for her. The bard had gladly complied. He was halfway through ‘Toss a Coin’ when Visenna abruptly silenced him by placing her hand over his lips. Her eyes were fixated on the door as she remained perfectly still, almost as if she were listening for any movement outside her hut.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other,” she whispered under her breath, but Jaskier caught her words nonetheless. Even if he wanted to question her words, Visenna was still covering his mouth and Jaskier knew there was no point in fighting her. She was probably a lot stronger than she looked. Jaskier could hear the faint sound of horse hooves thumping on the ground rhythmically before they came to a sudden stop. Shortly after, the door was kicked in and even though Jaskier’s first instinct was to flee and hide, Visenna was holding him firmly in place. All Jaskier could do was let out a scream muffled by the sorceress’ hand and widen his eyes in horror.

“Let go of him, whoever you are,” a deep voice rasped before Jaskier heard the distinct sound of metal on metal as the stranger unsheathed his sword. Something stirred in the bard upon hearing the voice that sounded far too familiar to be a coincidence.

“Good morning, Geralt. Put this sword away before you hurt someone with it.”

Jaskier tensed at the mention of the witcher’s name and at the sudden realisation that he had associated the voice with its correct owner. Geralt was standing before them, sword brandished and pointed at Visenna, an angry scowl on his face as he snarled at the sorceress.

“I said let him go. Now!”

Visenna took her hand away from Jaskier’s face and stepped away from him and towards Geralt. The witcher did not lower his sword, but he did not make a move to stab Visenna either. She brought her delicate fingers up to the blade and gently pushed it down.

“I let him go. Now you put your sword away. Was that not our unspoken agreement?”

“I never agreed to anything.”

Visenna stepped further into the light until her face was merely inches away from Geralt’s. She gently cupped the side of his face with her hand and Jaskier noticed Geralt’s expression falter as he got a better look at her features. The witcher dropped his sword as he scanned Visenna’s face. Jaskier wondered if Geralt remembered his mother at all. His question was answered when the witcher’s jaw tightened as he finally regained control over his own emotions. The next words that came out of his mouth took Jaskier by surprise.

“How do you like my eyes?” Geralt asked with pursed lips and if Jaskier did not know any better, he would say that the witcher was fighting back tears. “Do you know, Visenna, what they do to a witcher to improve his eyes?”

“Stop it,” Visenna ordered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you know that it doesn’t always work?” Geralt pressed her, causing her to take several steps back as if physically wounded by her son’s words.

“Stop it, Geralt!”

“You don’t get to use that name,” Geralt hissed through clenched teeth, “Vesemir gave me that name.”

Visenna moved away from Geralt, revealing Jaskier to the witcher. His amber eyes considerably softened when they met Jaskier’s cerulean blue ones. The bard had never seen the witcher so vulnerable than in that very moment. Jaskier was tempted to put all his pent-up anger aside and gather Geralt in his arms to support him through what appeared to be a more difficult reunion than what Jaskier and Visenna had originally anticipated. Before the bard could make a move, Geralt’s eyes snapped back to Visenna.

“I need to know why,” said Geralt, his voice surprisingly steady considering the shimmer in his eyes. Jaskier stepped closer to the witcher because he had a feeling that Geralt would not do anything rash if Jaskier was close. Perhaps the bard was being too confident in his belief, but Geralt would never purposefully hurt him. He would not. He would never, Jaskier was convinced of this.

“No answer will give you what you want, Geralt,” said Visenna in a shaky voice.

“Three out of ten boys survive the trials,” Geralt retorted in a bitter tone. Jaskier was now almost pressed to the witcher, and against all expectations, Geralt positioned himself in front of the bard. Whether the witcher intentionally meant to shield Jaskier’s body from any attack was unclear, but the bard liked to think that if Geralt had gone through all the trouble of looking for Jaskier then part of the witcher wanted to keep him safe. “Tell me, at least, that you didn’t know this before you left me on his doorstep.”

Jaskier reached out a hand and gently circled Geralt’s wrist. It was not much comfort and more of a silent reminder that Jaskier was there, that Geralt was not alone. The witcher’s words shocked the bard. Jaskier had no idea how perilous those witcher trials were. By the sounds of things, Geralt had gone through much suffering as a young boy. Suffering that neither Visenna nor Jaskier could fathom. The bard’s heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest at the thought. All the pain, physical and emotional, that Geralt must have gone through… Jaskier felt an inexplicable hatred pool in his stomach as he stared daggers at Visenna. How much _had_ she known about the witchers’ ways before sending her only son to be trained there?

“It was our destiny to meet again, Geralt. You were a special boy. You were a miracle, even. You should never have been born, and yet there you were. You were destined for great things. I wanted to give you your best chance. I was confident that you our paths would meet again some day.”

“You trusted destiny rather than try and find me yourself?”

“That’s enough, Geralt. Don’t ask anymore questions,” Visenna snapped at the witcher as a tear rolled down her pale cheek.

“Why not?”

“The answer will only hurt us both,” was the only explanation she gave. Jaskier tightened his hold on Geralt as if that action alone would hold the witcher back if he decided to pounce on the woman who had given birth to him.

“Geralt… let’s go,” Jaskier suggested, his voice raspy as he fought the anxiety building in him. “Come now friend, there’s nothing for you here.”

“Stay out of this, Jaskier,” the witcher rasped before snatching his hand away from the bard’s grip.

“Your friend Dandelion is right, Geralt. It is time for you to move on, my son.”

Geralt wanted to argue, Jaskier could feel it. There was no point. Visenna would be stubborn about the matter. Jaskier had not known her very long, but he had a feeling that she was not the kind of woman to submit easily.

“I have so many questions,” Geralt maintained stubbornly.

“None of which I can answer in a way that will satisfy you, Geralt. Or in a way that will make you forgive me. What then is the point of me answering them?” Visenna inquired.

“To give me closure,” said Geralt, his voice close to breaking.

“As I said, none of my answers will ever give you closure. Farewell, Geralt.”

Next time Jaskier and Geralt opened their eyes they were miles away from Visenna’s hut.

888

“Jaskier?! Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“No. She healed my twisted ankle.”

Jaskier felt slightly dizzy. Visenna had somehow transported them somewhere else, probably through some form of magic. Geralt fussing over him was not helping in the slightest.

“Why did you come for me?” Jaskier asked, and his words came out harsher than he intended them to sound. Geralt looked taken aback.

“I…”

“You what? Haven’t you insulted me enough? Do you want to add something else? I thought that getting me off your hands was the only blessing you could ask for, so why seek me out if not to rub salt on my open wound?”

“Jaskier…”

“I am _not_ done,” Jaskier yelled, unable to control his anger any longer. He was tired, confused and in need of answers. But first off, he would get to speak his mind whether Geralt liked it or not. “You are the absolute worst, Geralt of Rivia. One minute you’re hot, the next you’re cold. One minute you like my company, the next you throw me away like a used tissue. And that is all _her_ fault. Yennefer will _always_ take precedence over me no matter how often she drags you through the mud and tramples your heart. In the meantime, I mean nothing but the very best for you and you treat me with even less distinction than you would a stray dog. I will not let you treat me like this any longer. And unless you have a damned good reason for why you said those things to me, then I don’t want to hear any kind of apology from you.”

Geralt remained silent for a while after Jaskier’s rant. He had the decency to look bashful, like a puppy whose owner just rubbed its nose in its own wee. Jaskier thought the expression looked nothing short of cute on Geralt’s face. The bard chastised himself for that thought. Geralt looked up at Jaskier, his eyes shimmering in the same way they had when he was speaking to Visenna.

“You’re right, nothing I can say that will justify the harsh words I throw your way. I just… I guess the only thing I can say is that you were right, old friend. About Yennefer, that is. She’s bad news. I did not appreciate how much your presence makes a difference in my everyday life, Jaskier. You always whistle tunes to yourself when you walk. That sound has become so familiar that when I found myself travelling on my own again thinking that I had messed up so much I might never _ever_ hear your whistling again, I-“

Geralt did not finish his sentence, and he did not have to. Jaskier understood plainly what the witcher meant to tell him, and the unspoken words touched him beyond his own comprehension. A minute ago he was angry, nay _fuming_ , at Geralt and now… he was once again ready to forgive him.

“I needed to make sure that you were okay. You deserved an apology. You deserve more than just words to show you how sorry I am, but… I understand if from now you’d rather not see me anymore. I mean,” Geralt let out a humourless laugh, “even my own mother couldn’t bear my company.”

Jaskier’s resolution broke at those words. He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, more as an attempt to hide the tears welling up in his eyes at Geralt’s heartfelt words. When Jaskier opened his eyes again, Geralt had not moved from his current position. He was not looking at the bard either, probably bracing himself for a rejection.

“I could never stay mad at you for too long, dear friend. And I know just the way you can make it up to me.”

“Anything you want,” Geralt assured him, not quite trusting his own voice by the sounds of things.

“Come closer,” Jaskier said, beckoning the witcher closer with his hand. Geralt did as he was told and once he was only inches away from Jaskier, the bard interlaced his fingers with the witcher’s calloused one. “Close your eyes, Geralt.”

“Wha-“

“Just trust me, alright? Please?”

Geralt hesitated a second longer but eventually closed his eyes. He was on edge, Jaskier could feel it, but the bard would not have the courage to do what he meant to do with Geralt watching his every movement.

“I need you to promise me that whatever the outcome of the next couple of minutes, you will not hold any of my actions against me. Alright?”

“Jaskier…”

“Just promise me, Geralt.”

“Fine, fine… whatever it takes to get you to forgive me.”

Jaskier smiled softly and leaned into Geralt’s personal space, gently brushing his lips against the witcher’s. The bard did not miss the sharp intake of breath and Jaskier was about to retreat but quickly changed his mind when he felt Geralt reciprocate the kiss. The witcher’s surprisingly soft lips tasted the bard’s timidly. Geralt was not rushing through the experience; rather he explored the curve of Jaskier’s lips, darted out his tongue to taste them and even cupped the bard’s face as he did so. Who knew the witcher was capable of such tenderness?

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed in pleasure when he felt the witcher’s hand wander down his neck to tickle the exposed chest, “We should probably take this somewhere more… private.”

“I have waited long enough for this to happen. We are not doing anywhere.”

Who was Jaskier to argue with that logic?

THE END.


End file.
